


Take Me To Church

by Daziechane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet-lock, First Kiss, First Time, Hozier, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, TAKE ME TO CHURCH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 16:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12634548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daziechane/pseuds/Daziechane
Summary: John’s days blurred.  It didn’t even bother him anymore, that he wasn’t onstage.  At least, that’s what he told himself every time he clocked in for another shift.Sherlock’s days blurred.  It didn’t even bother him anymore, that he wasn’t onstage.  At least, that’s what he told himself every time he stepped into 221B.





	Take Me To Church

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts), [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts), [sassenach_on_the_rocks51](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassenach_on_the_rocks51/gifts).



> This has been in my head since I saw Sergei Polunin dance to Hozier's "Take Me To Church." If you haven't seen the video, I highly recommend watching it. Like NOW. What are you still doing here? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI
> 
> Also- the story behind the song: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Take_Me_to_Church
> 
> Infinite thanks to my friends who encouraged and read.

“Let’s start again, new topic. Where do you feel most safe?”

“At church.”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why church?”

“It isn’t the religion. It’s the building.”

“You like the architecture? That’s good- a creative pull, we can work with that.”

“No. It isn’t the building. I mean, it isn’t the BUILDING. It’s what it feels like. Safe. A place to go for, I don’t know, succor? That’s an old-fashioned word, but yeah. It’s a place I can pretend that someone gives a shit about me.”

“John, you know that people- “

“Gotta go. Time’s up.”

****

“You have to stop doing that.”

“Why? Why do I have to be the one to change? It’s not my fault she dances like an ostrich. Did you see her frame? That alone should have gotten her dismissed, but then she danced…”

“If you don’t change your attitude, no ballerina in the world is going to want to dance with you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should care, Sherlock. No partners means no career.”

“So, I’ll retire. I’d rather not dance than dance with talentless idiots.”

****

John left his therapist’s office in a foul mood. Why did she ask such stupid questions? And why did he come up with such stupid answers? Succor. Who even talks like that? But deep down he knew why he said what he did. He did feel safe in a church, like someone cared.

He used to feel safe onstage. Singing, playing, seeing the crowd in front of him… even if it was just bar gigs, it was a rush to see people smiling back at him, and once he had a song that people knew the words to, and would sing it back to him. He felt golden, powerful, loved. 

But that all came crashing down one night after a show. Out in the alley behind the bar, stopping a guy from beating his girlfriend, how was he to know the guy had a knife? He was lucky, “only” stabbed in his shoulder. Extensive blood loss, severe muscle damage, even a chipped collarbone, but he lived. 

Somedays John wished he hadn’t. The physical therapy drained him, the mental therapy drained him, he couldn’t play his guitar for months because he couldn’t move right, the band replaced him. He took a job at a pharmacy to pay the bills, stocking shelves and ringing up customers. 

There were nights when he sat in his flat, picking at the guitar. He hummed the old songs, but they didn’t give him the same rush anymore. All he could see was the face of his attacker during the last gig. The guy had been right up front, singing and smiling at him with the rest of the crowd. And then he’d ruined John’s life. 

So, John went to church. Not on Sundays, not when there were people. But he’d slip in on Tuesday mornings, when the old women were cleaning, or the Saturday afternoons when the choir practiced. It didn’t matter if it was Catholic, or Methodist, Lutheran, or Synagogue. One time he even went to a Sikh Temple. He wallowed in his depression, feeling a little better each time he made himself feel a little worse. 

And now his therapist knew about it.

****

Sherlock was bored with it all. Bored with the same old steps, bored with the same old music. “Oh please come do Swan Lake!” as if he hadn’t done Swan Lake a hundred times. Christmas? Must be Nutcracker time. Someone is mounting a new production of Romeo and Juliet? How could it be any different from any of the thousands of other Romeo and Juliets ever danced? Do they live??

He was bored with the tiny ballerinas and their severe hair and their painted faces. They were strong, yes, but they lacked the passion he felt. Maybe one or two prima ballerinas in the world could match his spirit, but for whatever reason, history or spite, they refused to dance with him. So he was left with boring painted dancing dolls and he hated it.

He’d studied ballet his whole life. From the first time he saw Rudolph Nureyev dance he was hooked. Even on his parents’ tiny, grainy, black and white TV he could see the power in the leaps, the passion flashing in the Russian’s eyes. During Sherlock’s first visit to Paris as a professional dancer, he laid two dozen white roses on Nureyev’s grave and wept.

Then there was Misha. Baryshnikov was Sherlock’s first crush. When he’d found a copy of “White Nights” in a store’s VCR bargain bin, he’d bought it and watched it so many times the tape finally snapped. It was the first movie he bought when he got a DVD player. He practiced ballet and told himself that someday, he’d meet Baryshnikov and they would be glorious together. When they did meet, it was good, a mutual admiration, but Misha had retired by then, so dancing together was limited to a few steps and some hearty pats on the back. It was… it was fine.

It was all fine, and it was all hateful.

****

“Thank you for shopping at Regular Chemist. Have a lovely evening.”

“Thank you for shopping at Regular Chemist. Have a good day.”

“Thank you for shopping at Regular Chemist. Piss right the hell off.”

Shit. Was that last one out loud? Did he care? Not really, but he needed the job, so he hoped it wasn’t out loud. The lady didn’t seem offended, so maybe it was just in his head.

John’s days blurred. It didn’t even bother him anymore, that he wasn’t onstage. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he clocked in for another shift at “Regular Chemist.” Christ. Even the name of the place was boring. 

“Thank you for shopping at Regular Chemist, did you find everything you needed?”

“John? John Watson?”

This was different. Usually he was just a cashier, nobody read his nametag, and nobody for sure ever called him by his full name.

“Yes?”

“The John Watson who played with The Doctors? Blimey. I haven’t seen you in ages. Mike Stamford, used to lug around your kit when you were just startin’ out. You guys were IT, man! Cuttin’ edge stuff. Razor’s edge. KNIFE edge. What happened?”

“I got stabbed with a knife.”

Mike’s smile dimmed just a bit, but he recovered.

“When do you get through? Let’s go have a pint.”

John thought for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken face to face with another person besides his therapist or a customer. He shrugged.

“Sure.”

****

Sherlock winced a little as the needle pierced the skin of his side. It wasn’t so bad, getting another tattoo, but every once in a while, the needle glanced off a rib. Eventually the pain would roll into a dull ache, and he could go back to his Mind Palace, but not yet.

Since leaving the ballet, he’d invested in this tattoo parlour, 221B. 221 separate ballet productions, all B-hind him. The name was ridiculous, but it helped that it was also the address of the shop. He could pretend it had no meaning. 

He took another drag on his half-smoked cigarette. If the ballet director could see him smoking… he grinned to himself. Lestrade’s spiky silver hair would practically be vibrating with rage, his dark eyes flashing. “Every time you smoke you take inches off your leaps. The nicotine weighs you down!”

If Lestrade had a thing against cigarettes, it was NOTHING compared to his annoyance at Sherlock’s tattoos. He had a few even before he left the troupe, and it was always a pain to cover them up. Costumes didn’t always cover them, and most times he sweat through any makeup. His partners complained that he smeared their leotards with it, adding to the expanding list of reasons they wouldn’t dance with him.

Sherlock’s days blurred. It didn’t even bother him anymore, that he wasn’t onstage. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he stepped into 221B. 

****

Turns out Mike had moved up in the business.

“Yeh, I decided to try my hand at promotin’. The money’s better, I work twice as hard, but lift half as much as I did when I was luggin’ your lot around. And I don’t have to stay up half the night waitin’ for a gig to finish. I mostly do independent stuff, some small bands in small venues, some music videos, hell, I’ve even branched out- got a performance art gig for a ballet dancer last week.”

“Ballet? Mate, you’ve gone off. You don’t seem the type to go in for all that.”

“Neither was that ballet dancer. He’s somethin’ else alright. Was a big shot at the National, up and quit in a snit. Now owns a tattoo parlour, spends his days gettin’ inked, smokin’, and pissin’ off everyone around him. Now, I’m no expert, but from what I’ve seen him do, he’s pretty good. S’killin him to not be onstage anymore.”

“I bloody well know how that feels.” John waved for another pint. Did he ever know how that felt.

****

“But why won’t you dance to this song?”

“Because it’s insipid. If I am to understand this project correctly, you want a performance that will complement your architectural installment, which is an unfinished, open-air cathedral of sorts. Using a two hundred-year old hymn will not convey what you want it to convey, no matter how talented the dancer is. And trust me- I am the most talented there is.”

“But it’s a beautiful hymn! It conveys exactly what I want it to! That God’s love revives us every day and that’s why I built this building like this! Listen!”

Molly began to sing:

“New every morning is the love  
our wakening and uprising prove;  
through sleep and darkness safely brought,  
restored to life and power and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,  
hover around us while we pray;  
new perils past, new sins forgiven,  
new thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

If on our daily course our mind  
be set to hallow all we find,  
new treasures still, of countless price,  
God will provide for sacrifice.

The trivial round, the common task,  
will furnish all we need to ask,  
room to deny ourselves, a road  
to bring us daily nearer God.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love  
fit us for perfect rest above;  
and help us, this and every day,  
to live more nearly as we pray.”

https://hymnary.org/text/new_every_morning_is_the_love

“Do you REALLY believe in that?”

Molly pursed her lips, just a micro-expression, but Sherlock read it anyway. “Well, it doesn’t matter if I do or not, it’s the song that I want to use.”

Sherlock snorted and turned away.

“If you are set on using this song, I am afraid you will have to find another dancer. I cannot in good conscience dance to something in which I no longer believe.”

“But I need YOU! You said it yourself, you’re the best! If you don’t dance, nobody will see my work!”

“Then it appears we are at an impasse. Good day, Miss Hooper. Call me if you find another song.”

****

“Mike, I’m desperate. I need another dancer.”

“What’d Sherlock do this time?”

“He refused to dance to the song I picked. He said it won’t convey what I want it to. Who does he think he is? I’m the artist, I’m the one who made the whole thing up- how does he know what I want it to convey?”

“Look Mols, here’s the thing. Sherlock is a great arse, yeh? Lord knows I want to punch him in his posh face more often than not, but he’s usually right about stuff like this. I don’t know much about ballet, but I know that what of it I’ve seen is better with him in it. When I was just startin’ out in the promotion business, I hung around with Lestrade, and I’d wait for him to get done rehearsin’ his company. One week, there were two guys tryin’ for the same spot, one of them was really good, I thought he’d get it for sure. Then the other guy came out and just blew it all away. Couldn’t take my eyes off ‘im. He did things different than the first guy, but it worked out… I dunno. Better. Now I know it was Sherlock, and the other guy was Anderson, you know- the one who’s in the spotlight at the National now. Well, he didn’t like the steps Sherlock was doin’ or somethin’ and got uppity. Now you know there’s nobody that out-uppity’s Sherlock, so he let loose. Mols- it was like watchin’ somebody sandblast a saltine cracker. Pointed out every mistake, every bobble, everythin’ that Anderson had ever done wrong in his life it seemed. Then he looked at Lestrade. Poor Greg. He knew Sherlock was right, but he couldn’t let him treat another company member like that, so he gave the part to Anderson, just to teach Sherlock a lesson. Well, two weeks later, Greg tells me over pints that Anderson kept dancin’ just how he had in the audition, never takin’ Sherlock’s ‘advice’ to heart, came down wrong, dropped his partner, and broke his ankle. Sherlock stepped in, did whatever the heck he wanted, and saved the show.”

“I know he’s a right arse. But he knows what he’s talkin’ about. If you want your show to be good, you’d best listen to him.”

Molly nodded, then put her head in her hands with a sigh.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll call him.”

****

“So, tell me. You don’t like church, but you like churches. You say you go to churches to feel like someone cares about you. You do know that’s why most people go, right? Because they believe in a higher power that loves unconditionally?”

John snorted.

“A higher power that loves unconditionally? Let me tell you a story. I have a sister, Harriett. Everybody calls her Harry, and she was always encouraged to be a tomboy. Played footie with the boys, went fishing with our dad, always in jeans, always a bit rough around the edges. So, one day she shows up at the house with a girl on her arm. Says she has a girlfriend now. Never saw her smile so hard in my life. Well, my parents grabbed her and marched her right upstairs. Threw her in the shower, cleaned her up, put her in a dress and drove immediately to the church. D’you know what happened there? The priest listened to her ‘confession’ and made her kneel for two hours with her arms outstretched, praying and begging God’s forgiveness for her unholy and unnatural ways. Then, on Sunday, he called her out during Mass, and told the whole congregation that my sister, my darling Harry, was a sinner, and no amount of our prayers would save her from Hell. That God had already judged her for her depravity, and there was nothing more that any of us could do. Harry ran right out of church and right into a bottle. She believed that son of a bitch and there’s not a damn thing I can do to help her. So no. I don’t really believe in a higher power that loves unconditionally. I just like to pretend sometimes that there is. Because what else is the point? Why do we live, if there’s no all-powerful love?”

Ella had nothing to say.

****

“What you need, Molly, is a song that tears you open. That lets everything out, empties you, so that whatever is waiting to come in, can. You’ve built this chapel, a symbol of hope, but it’s not finished. It’s not complete. You need a song that says that- and not in a ‘Woe is me’ kind of way, but in a ‘I am missing a vital part of myself and if I don’t find out what it is I’m going to die’ kind of way. Your church is missing vital parts, and I can dance them, but you need to find the right song.”

Molly had nothing to say.

****

“Mike, I don’t know what song says all that. At first, I thought ‘I Will Always Love You’ but Sherlock just rolled his eyes. Then I suggested ‘Love of My Life’ by Queen. He thought for a moment, then said ‘Nope.’ I started to say, ‘Hey Jude’ and he cut me off! Said if I couldn’t come up with anything intelligent to say I should just keep my mouth shut and learn sign language. I don’t think a song’s been written that says what Sherlock wants it to say.”

Mike pondered.

****

“John! Wotsit? Let me buy you a pint, I have a proposition for you.”

John laughed and looked wary.

“You, buying me a pint? What? You’ve got a sister with ‘a lovely personality’ who needs a date?”

“You wound me, you really do. I come to you in a professional capacity…”

“You need to buy some sticking plasters? Maybe some paracetamol?”

“Oi. No. I need to buy a song.”

John stopped laughing.

“I don’t write songs anymore, Mike. You know that.”

“Oh, I think this one is right up your alley. Remember that performance art ballet gig I told you about? They’re lookin’ for a song that, get this, lets everythin’ out, empties you, so that whatever is waitin’ to come in, can. You’ve been through some right shite, I figure you’ve got some stuff that needs emptyin’. What do you say?”

“I say you’re mad. I can’t write anymore, Mike. You should find someone else.”

“Give it a shot, think about it for a few days, for old times’ sake?”

John nodded, and drank his pint.

****

“I’ve been asked to write a song.”

“Really? How do you feel about that?”

“Terrible. I can’t write anymore. I don’t have anything to say anymore. I especially don’t have anything to say that would let everything out, empty you, so that whatever is waiting to come in, can come in.”

“I don’t understand. Can you explain that to me?”

“That’s what the song is supposed to DO. It’s weird. Mike didn’t ask for a love song, or a drinking song, or any other kind of song you’ve ever heard of, he wants a song that does THAT.”

“That’s a tall order, sounds like this song will have a lot of emotion, and I can’t say that expressing emotion is something that comes easily to you. Sounds like a challenge.”

John grinned out of one side of his mouth.

“Yeah. It does.”

****

John sat that night, and thought. What would make him feel that way? What made him feel the strongest emotions? Harry, of course. She was so happy, then so scared, and now so lost. His heart broke for his sister, and how she was treated.

If he was being honest though, he was also a little jealous of her. To have found someone that made her as happy as she was that day… he’d never had that. Sure, there were girlfriends, but nobody made him feel passionate. 

What was it that Harry told him about Clara before everything went to shit? “She’s so funny, Johnny. She could make a widow laugh at a funeral. And she’s so strong- like- she knows people don’t approve of her being gay, but she doesn’t care. I wish I’d met her sooner.” He wondered if he’d ever find someone that made him feel that way.

He began to write.

****

“You’ve contracted someone to write a song? In the millions of songs ever written, you couldn’t find one to say what it should say? Now we’re going to have to wait even longer. My muscles are going to atrophy.”

“Well, you should have danced what I suggested in the first place then.”

“Molly. Please. We both know I was right about that. Your work needs, DEMANDS a better song. It will be the final piece. The hypotenuse that completes the triangle of the performance. My dancing, and, well, your architecture, require a song that will hold its own, or why bother at all? You need something to withstand the passion.”

Molly stood, dumfounded. Had Sherlock actually complimented her work? And the way he spoke- she had never heard anyone talk about anything like that before. He was fiery, he was enthralling. She couldn’t wait to see him dance.

Sherlock desperately hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. He needed to dance like other people needed drugs. And he needed the purest hit, nothing less than unbridled passion would do anymore. He wondered if he’d ever find it.

****

“So. How’s the song coming?”

“Pretty good actually.”

“Tell me about it.”

John was suddenly shy. He didn’t want to share his thoughts just yet, but he knew he had to, just to get some feedback.

“I um… I brought a recording of it. Nothing polished, but if you’d like to listen…”

Ella smiled and nodded.

John fished his laptop out of his bag, set it up, and hit PLAY.

My lover's got humour  
She's the giggle at a funeral  
Knows everybody's disapproval  
I should've worshipped her sooner  
If the heavens ever did speak  
She's the last true mouthpiece  
Every Sunday's getting more bleak  
A fresh poison each week  
"We were born sick"  
You heard them say it…

When the song ended he couldn’t look up. What was Ella going to say? He’d laid himself bare like he never had before. His sister’s pain, his own longing, his anger, his disgust, it was all there. How was he supposed to act now? He’d held everything so close to his chest since the attack, and here it was, in the sunlight, waiting to be critiqued. He didn’t know if he could bear rejection.

Ella sniffled, and John looked up. She was sobbing into a tissue, her eyes wide.

“John, that was amazing. You’ve made a beautiful thing, I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling right now.”

He thought about it before he spoke.

“Actually, I’m feeling pretty good.” 

He grinned.

“Like I’m empty, waiting to be filled up.”

****

“Mols, call me back. I think we’ve got the song you need.”

****

“Where are we going, Mike? I thought we were gonna meet this artist friend of yours?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mate. That’s where we’re goin’, right over there.”

Mike pointed at what looked like a small wooden church, sitting in a field just outside town. John couldn’t tell if it was being built or being torn down. He liked it. It looked comfortable, like it needed a little help, but could be (could have been?) beautiful.

They got out of the car, and walked into the building. A young woman greeted them with a smile.

“Molly, this is John. John- Molly.”

John shook Molly’s hand and smiled. “Mike tells me you’re an artist? What kind of work do you do?” 

Molly laughed. “You’re standing in it. I used to build sets for the ballet, then I decided to widen my scope. I built this, and now I have a ballet dancer for it. Turnabout is fair play.”

John’s mouth dropped. “You built this? This is your art? It’s a CHURCH! It’s amazing!”

Molly blushed and looked at John through her lashes, clearly pleased with his praise, but shy.

“Ahem, well, I’ve gotta dash, Mols- can you get John back to town?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

****

“Well then. Mike says you’ve written a song? Can I see it?”

“Oh! Sorry, yes. I actually have a recording of it- nothing fancy, but I could play it for you.”

John held up his phone. “MP3, should be good to at least hear it.”

****

“TXT: SHERLOCK- CAN U COME BY CHURCH ASAP? SONG’S HERE, WANT U 2 LIS’N. MOLLY”

“TXT: Of course, I’ll be there Molly. Even if your ridiculous use of text-speak turns my stomach. -SH”

****

Sherlock wiped his face with a towel. His practice studio was warm and humid, he’d been dancing for hours, just by himself, to music he alone heard. He threw a t-shirt on, and a pair of trainers. He looked down at his tights, they were ancient, ratty, and from a distance you couldn’t even tell he was wearing them. He shrugged and left, grabbing his car keys and slippers as he ran out the door, too excited to change, hoping that finally something would be interesting.

****

“Let’s put the song on the good speakers- we can hook it up, and then go get a cuppa. Sherlock will be a while, he takes forever to get ready, such a Prima Donna.”

****

Sherlock arrived at the church, and jumped out of his car before the dust had even settled. He was surprised to find the place empty, but it was obvious that Molly was around, her equipment was all there, all turned on, just waiting.

He looked at her laptop, the music program was up. “Take Me to Church.”

He pressed play.

****

“And that’s it really. The song is about my sister, and how she was treated, and how even with all that shite she had to go through, I’m still a little envious. She found someone worth fighting everything for, someone that brought passion to her life. She and Clara, they’re still together, even though Harry’s such a hot mess. They both work so hard to make their relationship work, like they’d die without it.”

John stopped talking and his eyes grew large.

“Oh my God, Molly. I’m so sorry. Here we are, just met, and I’m spilling my guts out to you. My therapist would…”

He stopped. Red in the face with what he just let slip.

“It’s ok John. Mike told me about why you don’t play with The Doctors anymore. That was a right brave thing you did, and having a therapist to help you through recovery isn’t anything to be embarrassed about. You sound a lot like Sherlock, you know? Always searching for passion. Don’t let him put you off tonight, by the way. He’s a handful, but deep down he’s a good person, and he wants this to work just as much as any of us.”

She paused.

“Maybe, REALLY deep down.”

John laughed. 

“Speaking of Sherlock, think he’s there yet? It’s been over an hour.”

“Maybe. Let’s head back.”

****

Sherlock spun and threw himself on the floor, clawing his way across like his life depended on it. He rolled to his back and arched, then pushed himself up again. 

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

He leaped and ran, flying to each corner of the church like he was trying to escape, only to be held back by some unseen force.

Offer me that deathless death  
Good God, let me give you my life

He’d discarded his t-shirt the second time he played the song. Sweat rolled down his pale skin, making the black tattoos glisten. His dark curls clung damply to his forehead, framing his icy eyes. His chest heaved.

No masters or kings when the ritual begins  
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin  
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
Only then I am human  
Only then I am clean

He kneeled, exhausted and panting, in the middle of the floor. Red scratches stood out like brands on his skin from where he’d dragged his nails across his torso. He was drained. He was exhilarated. 

Where had this song come from?

****

Molly and John stood in stunned silence outside. They’d seen Sherlock dancing as they pulled up, and rather than interrupt him, they watched.

When the song faded, and Sherlock slumped onto the floor, they looked at each other in amazement. In the darkness, it was difficult to tell whose eyes had more tears glistening.

****

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Molly’s soft voice echoed in the silence of the church.

Sherlock’s sweaty head lifted, and he looked up. His eyes were unfocused, he spoke slowly.

“I’m fine, Molly. Do you happen to have a bottle of water? I left my flat in such a hurry, I didn’t bring one.”

Molly frowned, but went to her car to get the water.

John shuffled a bit, and the movement caught Sherlock’s eye.

“You. You wrote this. You had some personal…” He waved his hand weakly “…thing happen, and your therapist couldn’t get you to discuss it, but you could write about it in a song. Interesting.”

John clenched his left hand briefly.

“How do you know that? How do you know about my ‘thing’ and all that? Have you been talking to Mike?”

Sherlock stood, his eyes clearer now.

“No, I don’t need to. It’s written all over you. You hold your left shoulder and arm more stiffly than your right, you have marks on your fingers from guitar strings, but they’re too fresh to be there if you played often, but you’re here, so you’re the mysterious song writer. Since the recording is rough, it’s you playing guitar in it, you’ve obviously played a lot in the past, but your fingers tell a different story. So, former musician, you hold your arm awkwardly and have tender fingers- you had to stop playing because of something- probably an injury. Something that would have stopped someone as passionate about music as you would have been traumatic, hence the therapist. Now, passion. This song is full of it, but it wasn’t about music it was about something deeply emotional, there is a lot of anger there. It wells up and spills out, like you want to scream it, but you don’t want to share it. Speaking about it with a therapist would have diluted the feelings, and they’re obviously still strong, so there you have it. You’ve had a traumatic experience, stopped playing music, your therapist couldn’t get you to open up, but you’ve spilled your passion into a song.”

“That... was amazing.”

“You think so?“

“Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

"Piss off.”

****

“I’m telling you, Mike. The song is perfect, oh and the way Sherlock DANCED! I’ve never seen anything like that either, it was raw, it was passionate, it was perfect! Call me back when you get this.”

Molly hung up her phone and turned to Sherlock and John.

“I’m out, lads. John, are you ready?”

“I’ll drive him home, Molly.”

She looked at Sherlock in surprise, then at John, who nodded his head.

“Uh… ok then. We’ll be back at this tomorrow, yeah? G’night.”

Once out of earshot, she dialed her mobile again.

“Mike? You’re not going to believe this. Sherlock LIKES John!”

****

When Molly left, the two men sat in silence for a bit.

“That was amazing. Watching you dance like that. Never knew ballet could be like that.”

“It usually isn’t.”

Sherlock pulled on his t-shirt and tucked his knees to his chest.

“Ballet is… everything. It’s all I’ve worked for my entire life, and it keeps missing my expectations. I quit, you know. I just couldn’t find the passion any more. It became purely mechanical. Was my foot arched just so? Did my extension hold tightly enough? Did my relevez have enough tension? It became about checking off the boxes and going through the motions. I was so bored. Nothing ever excited me anymore. Now I’m not dancing, and I’m still bored.”

“This song. It’s good. That felt good, dancing like that.”

John nodded. He knew that he’d just been gifted something very precious. Even though they’d just met, he knew that Sherlock had never said anything like that to anyone else before.

“You were right, about my… thing. I was a musician, and had to stop. Tried to help someone out and got stabbed for my troubles. My band dumped me, my therapist thinks I’m in denial, my job’s shite, I’m not playing, and I’m beyond bored.”

“Let’s put it on again, there are a few moves I’d like to try.”

John got up, walked to the computer, and pressed PLAY.

****

Again and again, Sherlock spun and leaped. Somewhere along the way, he’d ripped a hole in his tights, and his slippers turned grey with the dust from the floor. Sweat poured down the ripples of his back and whipped off his curls.

John was transfixed. He couldn’t decide where to look, at Sherlock's whip thin arms as they arced gracefully over his head, or perhaps his muscular thighs, with the sliver of skin peeking out through the hole in those sinfully thin tights. And that arse…

He wanted to get up and dance too. Or drink. Or fuck. Or all three.

Finally Sherlock stopped, his lungs burning with exertion, making his chest heave.

John handed him a water bottle.

After one swig, Sherlock grimaced.

“I don’t really want water.”

“Molly mentioned earlier that there’s beer in the mini fridge, let’s have those instead.”

John grabbed two bottles of beer and popped the tops.

They sat in silence again, until they’d finished their beers. Then Sherlock got two more and John began to talk. All about Harry, all about churches, all about his anger, his feeling of betrayal. 

“Have you ever tried dancing?”

John giggled, a little drunk.

“I can do a shitty Highland jig, and I can grind out a slow dance, but nah. Nothin’ like you can do. That’s amazing. That’s art. The way you move, Christ Sherlock. Have you seen yourself? It’s like…”

He stopped, bright red. Would he ever learn to keep his mouth shut?

“Let me show you.”

Sherlock got up and pulled John up after him. Once they were both standing, he walked John to the center of the room.

“Stand there, I’ll be right back.”

He turned and put on the music again.

My lover's got humour  
She's the giggle at a funeral  
Knows everybody's disapproval  
I should've worshipped her sooner

He walked slowly over to John, his steps measured and pointed, in time with the music. Instead of standing in front of him, he slipped behind John and grasped him across the chest, pinning his arms to his sides. 

If the heavens ever did speak  
She's the last true mouthpiece  
Every Sunday's getting more bleak  
A fresh poison each week  
"We were born sick"  
You heard them say it

He swayed side to side, bending at the waist and dragging John with him, loose, his hair flopping with his movements.

My church offers no absolutes  
She tells me "worship in the bedroom"  
The only heaven I'll be sent to  
Is when I'm alone with you  
I was born sick, but I love it  
Command me to be well  
Amen, Amen, Amen

As the last Amen faded, Sherlock grasped John’s wrists and spun him around. They faced each other as the tempo changed.

Take me to church  
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
Offer me that deathless death  
Good God, let me give you my life

Sherlock guided them both around, leading John with hands on his hips. 

If I'm a pagan of the good times  
My lover's the sunlight  
To keep the goddess on my side  
She demands a sacrifice  
Drain the whole sea  
Get something shiny

He put one hand on John’s right shoulder, the other hand grasped the back of John’s neck. Pulling, pushing in tempo with the music, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

As John listened to the words he wrote, he felt them in a new way. It was like finding there was another dimension past 3D. He could feel the music in his muscles, and his muscles demanded movement. He reached out for Sherlock’s waist as they danced.

Soon they were both sweating, and Sherlock pulled off the t once again. John’s button down felt constricting around his neck, so he pulled it open. 

No masters or kings when the ritual begins  
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin  
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
Only then I am human  
Only then I am clean  
Amen, Amen, Amen

The music faded, and Sherlock dropped his forehead to John’s, their chests touching. Before he could lose his nerve, John cupped Sherlock’s cheek and kissed him gently.

Stunned, Sherlock jerked back.

“Ohhh mygod Sherlock. I’m sorry. I got carried away, and you’re so bloody hot, I’m sorry, please forgive me I should never have…”

He didn’t get to finish. Sherlock stepped forward and kissed him, pulling him closer. 

Sherlock pushed his strong thigh insistently in between John’s legs, bringing their rapidly-swelling cocks into contact with each other. Both men groaned at the sensation.

“So bloody hot. Those tights should be illegal, let me taste your ink, dear God you…”

John was babbling as he put his mouth anywhere he could reach on Sherlock’s glistening skin.

Sherlock pulled at the flies of John’s jeans. “Too many layers, need to see, need to feel…”

John pushed backwards, and pulled down his jeans, taking his pants down as well. He grabbed the thin material of Sherlock’s tights and pulled.

Once fully exposed to each other, he pushed Sherlock toward the wall of the church. The pair drew close again, but this time Sherlock wrapped one long leg around John’s waist.

To keep their balance, John stood with legs wide apart, and grabbed Sherlock’s ass. 

“You, yes, let me feel, ungh, harder…”

“Tighter, so slick, your hands….”

All too soon John felt the familiar tingling in his abdomen. “Sherlock, I’m gonna…”

“Yes, me too, kiss me, your mouth, let me…”

As Sherlock bit his lip, John’s orgasm overtook him. He moaned and froze, unable to do anything but stand as the stars exploded behind his eyelids.

Sherlock continued to writhe as he came completely silently, his eyes wide open and trained on John’s face.

As their breath slowed, Sherlock dropped his leg from John’s waist. Once again, he put his sweaty forehead to John’s.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“That was definitely NOT boring.”


End file.
